


you're drunk, i'm a mess, let's do this every year

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Cooking, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Making Out, New Year's Eve, POV Phil Coulson, Phil Coulson: human disaster, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Santa, Spooning, coulson feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:58:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3089402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson throws a Christmas party for his team. With a little help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're drunk, i'm a mess, let's do this every year

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the second Coulson's Cakewalk at [Let's Talk About Clark Baby](http://lets-talk-about-clark-baby.tumblr.com).

He wakes up with a bittersweet feeling somewhere in his soul – if he has such a thing. More like, his gut, maybe. And that part of the brain that buries memories but not the sensations associated with them.

He remembers one particularly loathsome Christmas – the second after his father died, and the first they spent in their new flat, they wouldn't have had money for presents but her mother decided that she should make it up to him (what? how? as if his father dying had somehow been her fault) by working double shifts. He got presents that year, plenty of them, but he didn't see much of his mother. And the new flat was small and uncomfortable and smelled funny and the neighborhood dirty and badly-lit, cold.

"Not much for the holiday spirit, hey, boss," Mack tells him in the morning as he packs up for his mission.

He and Mack have become quite friendly in the last few months, more than they had been, and more than he ever expected him to be. Circusmtances, the burden of shared traumas, but Coulson can't regret having him in his corner.

Months ago Mack would have never teased Coulson like this; months ago Coulson wouldn't have extracted this pleasure in knowing that Mack might be right, but that he was about to prove just how much holday cheer he could provide the team with.

How long had it been since he had organized a proper party? Thirty years? Probably. That's something Phillip Coulson, humble Boston boy trying to fit in with his newteammates would do (try too hard, that is, he had many years of trying too hard – until he found out making it look like he wasn't trying at all made him a succesful man, rather than the pathetic boy he'd been), but never the Mighty Phil Coulson, amicable but stern face of the Almighty SHIELD organization. What about Director Coulson, fronting an underground terrorist group of ragtag idealists? Maybe he throws Christmas parties, who knows.

This year he does.

This year people need it.

They need a break.

Or at least they need the distraction of seeing their humble and stern (still amicable? he hopes so) boss do something so uncharacteristic (or is it?).

But he's going to need allies.

Skye is the one who organized the whole presents (and the only one who didn't assume Coulson was too uptight for a Secret Santa deal) situation so she seems like the natural choice to help out with the dinner.

"What do you mean, you're cooking?" she asks. She has teased him before, saying she heard all about his culinary exploits from Simmons.

"I think the team would like that, a proper Christmas Eve dinner," he replies, and gets shy about it. Would the team like that, really? Is he trying too hard to be that kind of Director when he's not even sure what kind of Director he really is? Would Nick Fury offer to cook turkey for his subordinates? Probably not, he can't picture that, but Coulson has a hard time thinking about the dozen or so regulars of the Playground as mere subordinates, much less those brave souls scattered across the world under his command. He felt more like a boss when he only had the people on the Bus, when he was Level 8. It's funny how that works.

Skye gives him a reassuring smile. "They'll love that."

Everybody else is out on a mission anyway, and he had already asked Billy to buy all the supplies necessary. Choosing Skye for his partner in crime seems only logical. Plus, if he's going to spend the afternoon slaving away in the kitchen he'd better have some nice company, and Skye is nice company.

And Christmas dinner, while not complicated and not leaving much room for him to shine (he _likes_ impressing people) it's a brute force job, a matter of resistance, he can't really do it on his own.

"I much preferred Christmas at St Agnes than the other way around," Skye is telling him, nose wrinkled in concentration as she attacks the ignominous task of cutting sweet potatoes for him. "Christmas in foster homes are way too awkward. They make such a fuss of it, the parents. Kids feel like they put so much effort because they know it's the only one we were going to get. A lot of big, fat presents? Not really reassuring for an orphan."

Listening to Skye speak about her own dislike of holidays makes Coulson feel like he doesn't need to talk about his own experiences, yet he has the feeling he has just done that. There's a peculiar mirror between Skye's foster parents trying too hard and his own father, who was always away from home, trying to cram a year's worth of family experiences into a couple of days, with the expected results. Coulson used to get sick as a kid, really ill, when holidays were near, he'd get over-excited. He remembers the days before his father came home, better than the actual festivities or the presents and better than his father's presence. He remembers the stomach aches and the fever. No wonder most of those Christmas are a blur to him.

"The food at the orphanage was pretty disgusting though," Skye remembers with a grimace. "I still can't hear the words _lamb of god_ without the gag reflex kicking in."

Coulson smiles. He is thinking maybe they can't do something about that, at least.

"Is there anything you'd like? We have a lot of ingredients."

"Like, what, a dinner request?"

"Yes." He notices her face. "What?"

"That's really sweet," she says.

He shrugs, hoping that's the impression he could give to those who know him, that he's a sweet guy. He thinks he's a sweet guy. Never really considered himself otherwise, deep down.

"Christmas panettone? Can you do that?" Skye asks.

He checks the hour. "That's an overnight recipe."

"Oh, okay, that shows how much I know about cooking. Are you sure you want _me_ to help you?"

He has to admit that despite protestations he is having a good time in the kitchen. He normally does, cooking, but he also normally does this alone, focused and in silence. Well, to be fair, Skye doesn't make much noise for him, unless she feels it's okay to chat. She seems set on heading his instructions to the letter like a good sous chef – he wonders if she assumed she'd be a bother, he wonders why she seems somehow proud that he asked her for help.

She knows how to follow instructions and with that memory of hers Coulson doesn't have to repeat himself. She doesn't have much technique, though. That's kind of a problem.

"How did you survive living on your own without knowing how to zest citrus?" he asks her.

"I don't know what kind of life you think I led, but there wasn't much zesting going on. There were lots of Hot Pockets and Hubig's."

Skye snorts at the face he makes at that. He doesn't mean to be snobbish – well, maybe a bit – but Things You Can Buy From A Gas Station doesn't seem like a good diet.

"So where did you learn to zest?" she asks him.

"A book."

"Self-taught. My people."

"Mostly. I stole the cranberry sauce recipe from a teacher at the Academy. He used to cook for the students who stayed there on holidays."

"Recipe thieving. Still right up my alley."

"I had the basics already," he confesses, unsure if he should talk about this with Skye, seeing how she has her own situation. "My mother taught me and I used to cook a lot for her because she worked late. I was probably the only point guard in my high school basket team who knew how to bake."

Skye looks at him with those big sad eyes. But he's not getting down about this. He cherishes those memories of him and her mother in the kitchen, while she teaching him. She wasn't a particularly skilled cook but Coulson learned enough that by the time he had to live on his own he was perfectly equipped and self-suficient. In that sense he guesses Skye and him are not that different.

"That sounds really nice," she says. It surprises him a bit, but that's exactly how he thinks back on that, really nice."One of my foster moms was obsessed with teaching me how to make cookies, and I don't know, sweet stuff. But I was too impatient in those days."

"Here's the key to good cooking," he says, offering a glass of recently made eggnog. "Lubrication."

Skye does a funny double take at the word – yeah, yeah, he knows – but she accepts the drink cheerfully.

"Thanks for the wisdom."

"Yes, _wisdom_."

They laugh.

He has always liked cooking for people. He still does, he guess, or at least this is what he discovers this afternoon, cooking for his team.

At the moment it has all been worth it, just to see Hunter's face upon such an uncharacteristic announcement from "the Bossman".

 

 

_In the end he tends to remember the last Christmas he spent with family._

_Or really not Christmas, because actual Christmas he had spent doing tactical with some new recruits at the Academy – most people Coulson had entered classes with had already graduated but Fury wanted him to hold back so he could lead his own group of agents, instead of starting as second team fodder on an already well-oiled formation. Coulson wasn't sure if Fury was showing his trust in him that way, or it was actually a demotion, and at the time it had put a lot of stress on him._

_But he had been given leave to spend New Year's week at his mother's._

_And he was always glad to go home, sappy as it sounded (he was known to be a sappy one among fellow students)._

_"What are they doing to you?" she said as soon as he stepped into the flat, their old Academy joke. "Look at those arms. Where's my scrawny kid?"_

_"What scrawny kid?" he repeats. He hasn't been that weak and scrawny kid since he was fourteen and started a mania for joining every varsity team in his school._

_But SHIELD certainly had given him a different frame, even he noticed the changes. It was a recurring subject of teasing for his mother, who really loved to tease him._

_He would normally sleep days on end when he got home from the Academy but this time he honored their holiday tradition of cooking dinner together. It wasn't Christmas dinner but it was something. His mother still used that trick of hers of wearing her old lab coat to cook, so her clothes wouldn't get dirty. There was some Edward G. Robinson movie on the tv – his mother's favorite actor – which they would watch religiously. Christmas dinner out of date and in tv trays and it had been perfect in its own way._

_It was their last holidays together._

_She was already sick that Christmas but neither knew it yet. By the next summer she would be dead and Coulson would be leading his first team on the field._

 

 

"Happy nondenominational holidays," Skye says, shrugging in a self-deprecating way, like this isn't a big thing for her. Her role as non-official team captain of sorts has never been as evident as when she starts ushering everybody into their seats and promising them a luxurious feast. He and May might be management, but Coulson has no doubt who's the natural born leader among the other ranks. He envies her – that's a thing he's always lacked, from the school yard to the various sports to his days in Operations, he's never been that kind of person others follow naturally, he's had to work hard for that. 

Coulson is not sure how he feels about the IT support and the lab assistants joining them on the table but both Skye and Simmons _insisted_ , quite forcefully too. They are the bosses in that regard, quite literally. He is thinking of the poor agents, more than anything, they look traumatized enough upon seeing the Director out of his suit jacket.

"Professor Barzman's secret sauce?" May asks, recognizing the smell even after all these years.

He nods and wishes her Merry Christmas as they sit down to eat. 

Everybody seems very eager to try the stuff but a bit suspicious of the whole set up.

It's okay, Coulson is not a humble man, he knows he's a pretty spectacular cook, he's just waiting for the compliments to begin.

"Not to speak ill of the dead," Hunter starts. "But sir, you cook way better than Idaho, God rests his soul."

Everybody raises their glasses and bottles in remembrance of the people they lost this year. Coulson watches as Skye rests her hand on Simmons' back for a moment, and he knows what that means. All absences are felt, but all in different ways.

He guesses he should say something.

"I'm not one for speeches.".

"You're not?" Hunter says.

"I know this is not probably the Christmas you imagined yourselves having a year ago. None of us imagined we'd be fighting a Nazi organization from the 1940s and losing our health insurance upon being labelled the pariahs of the world. But as far as I'm concerned that's just testament to your committment, each one of you. So – thank you. Now eat, because Skye and I have worked hard on this."

And he means it. Not the "eat!" part, the rest. It's not easy being these people, they should know he notices and appreciates it.

Well, at least they seem grateful for the food.

"Maybe we should have made more of it," Skye wonders, seeing them fight over last helpings. "Do we usually keep them this starved?"

"It's better to leave people wanting more," he replies.

She raises an eyebrow. "You're full of wisdom tonight."

Yes, wisdom, he thinks again. He thinks maybe it's okay, these are good people, the good guys, if he lets them now he feels utterly lost most of the time, that he feels like he's winging it.

"I haven't seen you this cheerful at Christmas since the Academy," May comments when they finish eating.

It's weird about him and May, that she is one of the few people who knew him before, before he changed, before he was fully suited and fully formed. Sometimes he forgets, because she is not the same person either – and he wonders if it's weird for May too, the way Coulson knew her before the face she shows the world now. In a way it keeps them at some distance, how they are each other's witnesses.

"The cocktail bar is open," he says, afterwards.

Now there's no suspicion there, everybody flocks to the bar. Jemma, predictably, faster than anyone else.

The first drinks of the night he himself shares with the lab assistants (Simmons' minions as they are colloquially known), he hired them but has had little chance to interact with them; some were mere Level 1s when Hydra attacked. They could have easily gone on to the private sector, or other organizations, their resumes still not tainted by the SHIELD association. Coulson thinks it requires a special kind of courage to walk into this life of hiding on their own, when there were so many other alternatives. Part of him feels bad when he makes those trips all over the globe to recruit allies, to hunt down so to speak, the people who used to work for SHIELD but now might prefer to forget all about that life. One of the comms people who helps Skye was in the Academy when the shit hit the fan. Imagine that. Why had she chosen to try her luck with a lot like this? Maybe it wasn't a choice at all – because for him it wasn't, he should give everybody else the benefit of the doubt, that maybe they didn't have any alternative either, when it came to doing the thing they must.

It's a time like this – strangely festive despite the setting, the SSR emblems presiding over a table with pinecone cake on it – that Coulson feels closer to these people that he's ever felt to anyone. Something about banding together to fight off Nazis, he guesses. The losses, the transformations, the surreal intimacy of not having anywhere else to go. 

"Can you do some Tom and Jerry?" Bobbi asks, dragging him back to his cocktail-maker position by the arm.

"Please, Bobbi, you're offending me."

She throws her head back and laughs. Bobbi and him had always had a good time together, despite their differences.

"You're still drinking that rubbish?" Hunter asks, faithfully favoring his beer.

"And that's why no one likes you," Bobbi tells him. "Not even Coulson, and Coulson likes everyone."

"She's not wrong," Coulson helps out.

It's fun to watch the Englishman tremble and roll his eyes at the same time, but Coulson is a bit appalled at the realization that he actually likes Lance Hunter, or at least he counts him among his close friends. Desperate times indeed.

When the time comes to exchange gifts he watches with some delight as Fitz squirms, finding out Coulson is his Secret Santa. No one wants to have to pretend you like what your boss got youfor Christmas. Fortunately he consulted with Simmons before picking up a pair of shirts. It's a conservative choice but he's pretty sure Fitz has never worn nicer stuff, at least since he knows the young man he hasn't.

Not as part of the exchange but he watches Skye give her little helpers a small worn notebook full of scribblings detailing Rising Tide protocols and code. The two junior agents look at her in total reverence. Coulson sometimes forgets that Skye was already famous before she set foot on his Bus. He wonders what she would be doing now, if he hadn't tracked her down (or the other way around, it has never been clear and it has never mattered); she wouldn't be having this party, and she wouldn't have those scars. Skye, no doubt, would count herself lucky, even after everything, after Ward and his father and Trip. Coulson is not so sure she should.

Only his subordinates' subordinates call him "sir" tonight.

People are drinking and he loses track of who is giving presents to whom, beyond the remarkably entertaining encounter between May and Mack, who look about to enter a fighting arena rather than exchange gifts. Mack had actually asked Coulson for ideas – _I fought that battle twenty years ago_ , he replies, because Melinda May is almost impossible to buy presents for, _now it's your battle_.

Then, at some point, Skye takes him aside.

"So I'm your Secret Santa."

"That's fortunate," he comments.

"Not really. Bobbi was supposed to be your Santa, actually, but you know – I swapped with her. I had the advantage."

"You got Hunter'"

"Yep."

Coulson almost regrets the change; he's sure Hunter would have _loved_ to receive a gift from Skye, much to her annoyance. And he's curious to know what Bobbi would have bought him. He and Bobbi have known each other for a long time but not well enough, it would have been fun. But he has to admit the perspective of getting something Skye has picked herself has its own, different merits. And he had no idea. She never made any conspicuous question or tried to fish for information. He would have noticed. Whatever she got him she must have had a pretty good idea beforehand.

"Don't get all – you know," she tells him. "It's not that big a deal. But I had already bought them. I don't know why. I just thought, uh..."

She trails off, placing the small box on his hand. It's not like Skye to be shy. Though, he realizes, he's not sure what it's like Skye anymore. She's changing so much these days. More in flux than he's ever known her. It's hard, because part of her doesn't want to be changing, to be finding herself again. Coulson knows how hard and costly it must have been the first time around, for Skye to become Skye and be satisfied with that. And then Raina had undone all that with one single, selfish gesture. Oh he has no doubt Skye will get wherever it is that Skye wants to go, but right now she's struggling. 

He could tell her that it's okay, that he's still struggling, and he's got twenty-five years on her.

He takes the present she offers, happy to do that at least, accept her gesture.

He almost doesn't have to unwrap it, he has a feeling he knows what it is. He doesn't know why, he just does, the same bittersweet feeling he woke up with.

"It's not a complete set but – you told me you lost them in the Battle of New York, so."

 _Before_ the Battle of New York, he thinks, almost corrects her out loud; he wasn't even in the actual battle. He doesn't share that honor with the rest of the New York heroes. His story ended before that.

It's not Skye's fault but he feels a pang of panic as he touches the edge of the stack, the colorful sight of the Captain America vintage trading cards awakening certain memories in a certain, sharp way. That taste of adrenaline in his mouth.

"Is this okay?" Skye asks.

He nods.

The bad memories are almost preferable to the inconvenient warmth that replaces them.

Of course Skye's gesture is impossibly touching and he is impossibly touched.

He wants to believe there's no connection between this – the emotion of being undeserving of such a gesture and the complications of what lies underneath – and his decision to start drinking and heavily this night. Fuck it, he thinks. He hates Christmas, and he has worked hard all day to make sure everybody has a good time. Why can't he have a great time. He can get smashed if he wants to.

"Let's get back to everybody," he tells Skye.

But he doesn't, he goes upstairs for five minutes or so, to put away the trading cards and have a drink alone. It's a bad idea, getting emotional at Christmas, it's a bad idea specially for him. It's really, really juvenile of him, hiding away like this.

It's a proper party now.

Except he hasn't counted on Skye drinking heavily as well.

He finds her again half an hour later, a bottle of bourbon all to herself. He's never seen Skye drunk, but then again, she hasn't seen him drunk either. It's a strange sight.

"It's okay, it's okay," she says. "Simmons told me I could. That it nul – nul – nullifies my powers. Ugh, _that word_. That I couldn't bring the building down if I wanted to. It's good, I'm glad, at least I can drink, uh? Small blessings, uh?"

He's not sure if she is asking for his opinion. Does she expect him to chastize her? Good luck. He's not her father. He's no one's father. He's just as miserable as everybody around here. Just as clumsy.

And he hasn't counted them being the last two people standing, leaning against a wall, facing each other and watching everybody else walk away one by one.

Hunter had declared that he was going to party until the morning but Bobbi takes him away to their bunk.

Skye and Coulson are left alone to contemplate the remnants of their ruined kingdom without having to worry about the cleaning up – somehow Mack had tricked Billy into entering a bet about it.

She hippcups a bit, but she is slightly sober now. Coulson draws his hand over her back comfortingly, which isn't a sober decision at all.

"Not to be arrogant or anything but – that was a kickass party," she declares. "We destroyed them, sir."

"Yeah. We weren't bad."

He is, of course, getting sentimental like a bad song. There's a good reason why he shouldn't drink like this, at least in company.

"We should do this every year, we are the kings of Christmas."

He has no idea what that means. He knows he has liked working on the preparations. And yes, it's in no small part thanks to the company. The company. Ah, the company.

"We make a good team," he says, feeling weird nostalgia for the whole afternoon.

"You were amazing," she tells him.

"Well, thank you, Skye."

He watches her bring her fingertips to her lips.

"What?" he asks, because she is looking at him like he is a particularly tough security program she has to crack.

Skye leans into him and pushes her mouth against his. 

At first he's not sure what's happening, like the gesture makes no sense to him, even as his own mouth opens pliantly under Skye's sweet attack.

It's shocking, he is startled by the combination of soft and wet against his mouth. It's embarrassing to admit but he had forgotten what being kissed by someone felt like. That's pathetic – even more pathetic when he thinks he's drunk and it's his subordinate, his agent, whom he's kissing, a young girl, who is kissing him, whatever, details, details. The details are still pathetic. But a mouth is touching his mouth so who cares about the details.

He feels her hand snake up to the back of his neck, grabbing him and pulling him against her mouth. Skye is such a aggressive kisser and Coulson finds that wonderful right this moment. He gives in with abandon, the alcohol taking care of that pressing ache in his brain telling him how awful it is, what he's doing. Well, it _feels_ good. Coulson wraps one arm around Skye's waist. With the way she kisses Coulson wonders what it would feel like, if Skye were to make love to him, maybe he could ask – and that, he swears, is the worst thought he's ever had. It doesn't mean he plans to stop.

Skye moans when he bites her lower lip and somehow the sound, while travelling through his veins like lava or some other cliche he can't think of right now, wakes him up from his daze for a moment.

"Let's stop," he says, with more common sense and decency than he thinks he possesses right now.

Skye chuckles against his mouth.

"Nice great plan, sir, awesome, really. But sir, your hand is under my shirt."

So it is, he realizes, so shocked upon seeing his arm disappear under the dark blue fabric of Skye's loose shirt. And his fingertips and the palm of his hand are certainly warm from the contact. And the skin on her back is certainly soft. There's no doubt: he has his hand under her shirt.

He curses under his breath but the hand won't get from under Skye's shirt. In fact, as if of its own volition, his fingers grab Skye's waist even more desperatedly.

"This is really weird," she says, voice high and almost wistful. Despite the declaration of weirdness Skye proceeds to bury her face into the curve of his neck, nuzzling his jaw, it can only be described as nuzzling, until it stops, because Skye is now kissing his neck, that same curve of his neck oh god he's about to lose it.

He tries to move his hips against her leg, to get some friction, he doesn't care if she can tell he's already hard. It's been too long, he just wants some fucking human contact. He's horny and hopeless and Skye is – Skye is – 

"Skye..."

"Mmm, what?"

Her fingers play with the hair on his nape. Coulson thinks he might be done just from that sensation. It's been that long, and she is that lovely. But this is really, really wrong, he's not going to come in his pants while making out with a subordinate half his age. He might be intoxicated, but he's not an asshole.

Skye's mouth is still in command of his, pitilessly, so he finds it hard to make out the words he needs to say.

"Let's not do this," he manages to say, finally.

"No, right," she says, still cheerful. "You are right, we can't do this _while drunk_. Let's not, let's have some coffee or – or water. Water's good."

"No."

"Or coffee."

He can tell Skye already has this whole scenario in her mind where they go and have coffee and sober up and then continue making out. He has to stop that idea before it goes further. Before it becomes his idea too.

"No. Let's not do this _ever_ ," he tries again.

"Oh. Oh riiiiight. Sorry."

It's not Skye's fault. It's everything but her fault.

"It's not – but this can't happen."

Ugly realization dawns on her.

"Right. Sorry. I didn't understand you."

She drops her hands and that particular warm spot at the back of his neck she was touching becomes icy now. She doesn't completely disentangle herself from his touch and Coulson kind of needs her to, _right now_ , so he pushes her away a bit, grabbing her shoulder, and it's awful, it's a mess, he would pay so much money not to have Skye looking so hurt and ashamed right now. 

She puts her hand over her mouth.

"God, I'm – sorry."

She stumbles awkwardly when she tries to give him some space.

It's not fair but a glimmer of sobriety tells her that treating this as anything less than a complete disaster right would only confuse her more. Worse, she might try to kiss him again. He's not sure he can push her away a second time. 

So he lets her go.

He lets her walk out of the room, humilliated.

 

 

He wakes up the next day with something worse than a hungover.

That should be normal fare for people who do Christmas (and he can see it is, as he sees both Hunter –cheerful and achy and oversexed– and May –more laconic than usual, and looking deadlier, dropping two bags of tea in her cup– both nursing the worst of the lot) but he doesn't do Christmas and he doesn't do hungovers and he doesn't do this. He doesn't like messes.

Skye seems to have woken up early and thrown herself into hard work, and you wouldn't even know from her face that she slept less than usual or that anything else is wrong. She plays the good soldier part, they all need to. Neither the world nor Hydra stops because they had a Christmas party or happened to get wildly unprofessional with one another. And this is how Skye works things through – working. Coulson's approach is less healthy. But equally silent.

He doesn't plan on ever talking to her about what happened, and he hopes he doesn't have to. Skye is smart and sensitive, she can figure it out on her own. He's afraid she's going to bring it up, because she is not easily daunted but she doesn't. Not immediately anyway. 

And well, he's embarrassed. He can only imagine what others might think of his behavior – because he's thinking it too. He's known to fuck up before. If he were to tell May – and May must never ever know – she wouldn't be so surprised, the stories she could tell. But perhaps not on this scale. Phil Coulson, SHIELD agent with a penchant for inappropriate interpersonal relationships might get a pass for this but Director Coulson, ultimate responsible for the whole of SHIELD as it exists, is way out of line. That's the thing preventing him from exploring those feelings that weren't entirely to blame on the drinking; otherwise – otherwise he doesn't know. He would probably find out. There's nothing else stopping him. He doesn't think he is too old for Skye, or too old in general, and he doesn't believe they are too damaged for a relationship. Maybe in another life. But there's only this life and in this life – and he chose it – there are things he is supposed to feel and things he isn't suppsed to feel. Skye falls in the latter category.

But they are both adults, this is not a game, he trusts Skye knows that some drunken kissing doesn't have to be a big thing in the context of people who work together in dangerous situation. It sounds like a excuse – he's full of those today, they are the only things that dull the pain in his temples – but it's true. An accident. A misshap. Maybe something humorous – who hasn't done something like this at a party. He's kissed plenty of people without it having ruined both their lives.

But Skye is not _plenty of people_ , he knows that.

People assume he's some sort of guardian or father figure to her, which only makes everything more egregious and his pressing desire more shameful. But he doesn't feel adult enough to be any of those things, to anyone, much less Skye.

"Against protocol," Billy is saying and for a distracted moment Coulson thinks he's commenting on the situation.

"What?"

"Spending all this money on food and – alcohol. There's a reason why I have a very strict budget plan."

"The team needed it," he says in a half-assed voice that lets Koenig know he's not interested in talking about this any more. Money is a problem these days, but some organic turkey and some bottles of brandy is not going to make a difference. Maybe he has some more items in the collection to sell, though he's pretty sure he's already run that to the ground.

He wonders how much the Captain America cards cost Skye. 

Did he ever properly thank her for them?

No, this is the thanks she gets. Iciness and distance.

He tries to avoid her for the rest of the day. He realizes he might look petty to her, or like he is punishing her.

But things get a bit easier the next day.

 

 

He wishes he could fix things properly, but even if he had the first idea how he still wouldn't have the time – the week after the party is rife with the other kind of conflict, and they have other problems; like trying not to get killed two days before New Year's while trying to rescue three trapped SHIELD agents in a safe house south of Caracas.

He wouldn't say it's a good distraction because honestly he'd rather be back in the base worrying about personal problems than leading a team into a risky situation like this.

"We've been locked out," Mack says, making way for Coulson and Skye, the unlikely extraction team.

" _Lock_ is such a relative term," Skye says, wiggling her eyebrows at them.

"That was pretty cool," Mack comments when she manages to use Hydra's explosive charges against them.

"Yeah," Coulson manages to say, also in awe. He should be worried about mixing Skye's new abilities with her suspicious knowledge of bombs but to be honest he finds what she does pretty badass, to put it simply.

They rescue the whole SHIELD team, no man left behind.

Anyone else would consider that a "good day".

"A Christmas miracle," Mack says as he helps Skye get out of there, scratched but in one piece.

Scratched.

They weren't lucky. She was just that good.

Coulson wishes he could fix things but he hopes things will fix themselves because when he asks Skye if she's all right, seeing the dark bruises on her left cheek afterwards, after the dust is settled, it almost feels like things are okay, could be okay. He wants to touch her and he realizes that Skye might be smart and sensitive enough to understand some ill-advised drunken kissing means nothing, but maybe he isn't.

 

 

_Something about the New Year makes him think about the team, about teams in general rather than families, and what that means._

_That's a natural association._

_There was always the group of students who stayed behind at the Academy, because they couldn't or didn't want to go home. They had the run of the ghostly place – this was before the Academy became massive and well-regulated._

_One particular New Year's Eve found him huddled together with John Garrett and three other agents in a village outside Kishinev after things had gone south and the extraction team was nowhere to be found. Was that a SHIELD mission or a Hydra mission? Would have Garrett known, so long ago? Coulson can't help but being bitter about these things, about the tainted memories._

_He actually missed the change into the new year once, when he got shot on the job (he still has the trace of a nasty scar on his left thigh) and woke up in a half-deserted hospital on the first of January of – well, a long time ago. He can't quite remember how long ago this one was but he was young enough or hopeless enough that Fury visited him in th hospital and acted vaguely paternalistic with him._

_The winter after Bahrain he tried to track May down, but she wouldn't be found that year, not unless she wanted to, and she wanted to very few times._

_Personal stuff – for obvious and not so obvious reasons there hasn't been much of that. And sometimes SHIELD was as personal as it got for him._

_The New Year's plans he made with Audrey, incipient as the relationship was, for a night out (or a night in, they both liked the idea of curling on the sofa, but they talked about New York and being "disgustingly traditional" together) when he got called out on a mission. He never had the chance of a new year with her._

 

 

He is not expecting another party, and he is not expecting to be the one out of the loop this time. To be the guest of honor. He feels phony when they tell him is their way of thanking their boss for the other day. Now of all times he doesn't feel like he should be thanked for anything.

"You did such a good job of taking care of us on Christmas' Eve," Hunter says. We are nothing if not grateful. We thought we'd might – you know – return the favor."

"And all year. You've been taking care of us all year," Simmons adds hastily, a very British flush across the cheeks.

Despite the disaster of the last days and despite rumors to the contrary Phil Coulson is human and the scene doesn't fail to warm him. There's team and there's family and there's both. They are wrong, of course; he didn't take good care of them, if he had he wouldn't have lost so many men. And it was them who had taken care of him, mostly.

"I'm afraid we are not that skilled in the kitchen," Mack points out with a big grin.

"But we have Billy's credit card," Hunter adds. Koenig gives him a definitely _we'll talk later_ expression, to which Hunter is completely impervious.

It's perhaps a smaller, more intimate affair. And there's very little alcohol, thank god. 

They eat take out but mind, it's _good take out_ , and Coulson is actually a lot less lofty in his tastes than many were led to believe. 

This time he doesn't have to make a speech. Just as well, he feels like he's run out of wisdom.

This time he doesn't get left behind by mistake, he waits it out because he wants to talk to Skye alone. They didn't speak much during dinner – but enough that people didn't suspect anything was wrong, he thinks. And whatever mellowed mood they both seemed to be in he's sure the team put it down to common holiday blues.

"Do you need a hand?" he asks, watching her start to put things away.

"It's okay, I have to clean up anyway. I made the great life choice of listening to Mack when he said the word _wager_."

Her smile is a bit forced but it's getting there. If Coulson leaves it alone, if he doesn't press the subject any more he's convinced things will go back to normal in a couple of days.

If he leaves it alone.

"Why do I have the feeling you had something to do with all this?" he asks, gesturing towards the dinner table.

Things are what they are with Skye, and yet it's like her to do this.

"Fitz and I were talking about how nice it was – what you did the other night, and I thought... I hope this is okay."

She's a sweet girl. They are both sweet people. It shouldn't be so difficult to fix this between them.

"I'm sorry I made a mess of things," she says, without preamble.

He should have figured she wouldn't leave it alone either; Skye is not one for running away. That's more his thing.

"You are not the one who should be apologizing."

"But I am. I was impulsive and thoughtless. I fucked up." She lowers her voice on the last two words like on top of every other offense she imagines to have committed against him Coulson is going to object to the language. She shakes her head. "I can't believe I did that with you."

He doesn't have to ask what that means. Skye has it tough these days and he's been – he's not sure he wants to say _helping_ , because he's not sure Skye needs his help, but he's sure she appreciates him trying to make things easier for her, not just as a boss and friend, but as somene who knows what it feels like to have your body taken over by something you can't control or even understand. He can't blame her for leaning on him a bit harder than she used to, while she figures things out. She earned that right. There were times when Coulson leaned on her a bit too hard.

He can't blame her for being terrified of losing that closeness between them because of some silly mistake.

He's terrified, too.

"I'm really sorry," she repeats.

And maybe he is petty but he is a bit pissed at her too, at the way she assumes it has to be her fault alone, that he could do nothing wrong. He can do a lot wrong and he thought Skye knew that, that it was the whole point, that she could see him.

"Why do you assume you were the only one to fuck up? Were you alone over here on Christmas Eve? Last time I checked there were two people. So why are you the one to make a mess out of things?"

Skye gives him a hard look for a moment, then drops her gaze.

He wonders if that was too harsh.

"Because if it's my fault maybe I can fix it," she says in a small, horrible, knowledgeable voice.

The anger drains out of him immediately.

Maybe sometimes he forget because she seems so... Skye. But she never forgets. Where she comes from. What she's had to do.

He cups her face in his hands. Skye is looking at him like he's lost his mind, this sudden change in mood, but he doesn't care.

"I want you," he says.

Skye knows she is loved – that was never an issue. He wants her to know she is wanted, desired.

He kisses her, and without the courage or thoughtlessness of alcohol it is terrifying. Terrifying as it should be. It's silly – they've been through so much together – but he decides he really wants Skye to like him.

She lets him kiss her, hesitating about returning it. Her mouth is still warm, still like he remembers – he has been torturing himself trying not to remember these past few days – it was never an drink-induced fantasy. He never thought it was.

Skye puts one hand on his shoulder, pushing him away gently.

"You are sure about this?" she asks. "Because I can't –"

He's not sure how that sentence finishes; he's nodding and he must look sure enough or at least enough for Skye, because she accepts that answer and presses her face against his again.

Sober she is a lot less proactive with her mouth, but it's still shockingly nice, to be kissing someone, to be kissing someone he loves. To actually love someone. He's been missing that. He's sappy. He likes messes like this one.

He slips his hand under Skye's shirt. This time is not a mistake or simply a drunken impulse. It never was, not really.

She takes his hand in hers, pulling it away.

"Sorry," he mutters, confused by the rejection.

Skye shakes her head.

"I know you probably think holidays are silly anyway," she says. "I know because that's what I think. And I know it's technically the new year but not really. I want you to start the year doing something nice."

"Like what?"

"Well, like me."

Coulson laughs, really laughs. 

"I walked right into that one," he says.

Then Skye brushes her thumb across his palm and the comedy is over. She threads their fingers together, holding him tight.

Coulson follows her down the hallway, hand in hand.

They'll be showing up in every camera security log but he doesn't care.

Skye's room has a soldier-like air of something transitory he is not expecting. He remembers her van – cluttered, humble, homey – and feels a pang of guilt. What have they done to her? But then she is smiling at him and sliding her mouth over his and he stops that.

"Come in."

There's a moment of hesitation as he stands in the doorway, feeling slightly foolish until she is close again and he can have his mouth on hers again and his hand down the back of her jeans. He slows down because they need to reach the tiny bed and then Coulson gets distracted by the way her tongue is licking at the roof of his mouth. He had no intention of finishing the year like this but he should obviously leave all the great ideas to Skye.

They've been kissing for a while when Skye start tugging at the hem of his shirt. There's an edge of impatience there and Coulson wonders if he has forgotten the protocols of these things.

He also realizes that he might have gotten too enthusiastic already. He doesn't think Skye would take that as a compliment.

"There might be some technical difficulties," he confesses when her hands move to his belt.

"Don't worry, I've got condoms."

He smiles at her. She's wonderful. She has no idea.

"It's not that. I may be a bit... over _eager_. I might not meet certain expectations."

Now it's her turn to smile. She is looking at him like he's wonderful, too. Why not? Most of the time Skye makes him feel pretty wonderful. He decides he must be just that. Skye wouldn't lie to him.

"Lie down and relax," she says, gesturing towards the pillow. "Let me worry about expectations."

It's funny, because he had felt confident when he was drunk. Now he just wishes he can do right by her. God, he truly is like a bad song these days.

Skye starts undressing him, she's very tender about it, which confuses him. He's not used to being handled, much less handled in such a manner. Her touch is a shock, his skin unaccostumed to someone else's caress. There's only a small moment of discomfort when Skye sees the scar on his chest for the first time.

"Does it...?"

"You won't hurt me," he assures her.

She draws her hand over it, then over his heart, fingers playing with his hair.

"That's nice," he mutters, charmed by the gesture. Judging by their first, fish-gasping-for-air desperate encounter on Christmas' Eve, he would have guessed this would turn out quicker, messier. It's not. He shouldn't confuse passion with speed. 

"I told you, I'm nice," Sky says.

"Yes. You are."

He arches his hips off the bed to help her help him out of his pants and underwear. He likes being naked in front of Skye, the way she watches over his vulnerability, his pride, his quiet arousal.

Then she is laying little, delicate kisses on the curve of his hipbone.

Coulson threads his fingers into her hair, sighing.

"What?" Skye asks, resting her hand on the inside of his thigh, right where he got shot that Christmas.

"There goes the expectations," he says.

They both laugh.

 

 

He wakes up the next day, early.

His mouth is pasty and his muscles ache; he is not old, but there was a second and a third round of expectations and they had ended up pretty late so when Skye's alarm goes off (does she really get up at this ungodly hour every day? he needs to get the girl some vacation time) he moans loudly.

But there's no gloomy feeling in his soul (he's pretty sure there's something like that in there). In fact there's a striking absence of gloominess, specially given the potential mess he's gotten himself into.

"I never liked Christmas," he says, knowing someone is listening.

"Never?"

He rests his palm on her bare hip.

"Well, maybe there was a time. But then –"

"Your father died."

He doesn't tell her how horrible it was, when his father was alive. He doesn't tell her about getting sick days before. He will tell her. Maybe next year. He anticipates a slow process – he _is_ a mess, and wonders if Skye knows what she's getting into – but he wants to tell her.

"Mom tried but..."

"They tried," Skye says in turn, and Coulson remembers their conversation about foster parents. "When they tried so hard, it always made me feel like 'd have to return the presents or something, someday. Didn't let myself enjoy the toys."

He kisses her, tries to reassure her this is not the case.

Skye refuses to play the sad orphan role.

"So we both get down at Christmas," she says." Big deal."

He turns around again, letting her hold him in her arms, press her breasts against the line of his back.

"I have a solution for that," he says, wrapping his hand around Skye's wrist as it rests on his stomach.

"What's that?"

"Maybe we could... cheer each other up every Christmas," he offers her.

He cranes his neck so she can take a look at him, know that he means it. 

"Every Christmas? That sounds serious."

"I'm a serious man," Coulson replies. He tries to keep his cool but his heart is in his throat, and in Skye's hands. It's okay, he doesn't want to be cool. He wants to be happy and loved and hers. It's a very serious offer.

"That's fine," she says, stretching on the bed like a cat towards the sun, and over him, touching her mouth to his cheek. "I'm a serious girl, too."

It's still early so fuck it, he decides, the Director can get up late on New Year's Day if he wants to, so he throws one arm back to pull her closer. She presses back, holding his arms under hers in a sweetly possessive gesture.

He hates Christmas, but this one wasn't that bad.


End file.
